Parting and Possibility
by Cybaster
Summary: When the end of Admiral Proudmoore's invasion leaves tragedy in its wake, Thrall finds himself needing to seek closure - despite the prospects - with the brave, young Human woman he had indirectly, unwittingly, killed as well. Very, very AU.
1. The Cost of Peace

Parting and Possibility

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Summary: When the end of Admiral Proudmoore's invasion leaves tragedy in its wake, Thrall finds himself needing to seek closure - despite the prospects - with the brave, young Human woman he had indirectly, unwittingly, killed as well. (Very, very AU)

Author's Note: _Lord of the Clans_, of all things, finally convinced me to try a WarCraft 3 fic (other inspirations include all the really nice Thrall fanfics on FF.N, including J CAE's 'Listen', Tyraa Rane's 'The Finer Points of Redemption' and one of the reviews either Tyraa or Rowan Seven made for 'Rain River' when it was still on the site ), as it really, really raised my opinion of Thrall by a few more notches and really fleshes out his past. It also makes me curse Blizzard for chickening out on _making_ the game...ah, well, at least I have the novel to tide me over, and I can't wait to see how Durnholde turns out in WoW.

After being re-written and drawing board-ed three times, however, this was the end result. -.-;;;

In either case, here it is, an experiment and something I really want to try, and I sincerely hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I will writing the story...I hope.

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Disclaimer: I wish I owned WarCraft III and Lord of the Clans, but I don't, so deal with it. Both belong to Blizzard. The LotC novel was written by Christie Golden. World of WarCraft purists definitely should stay clear of this story, however, as it is a blatant AU - and trust me, you'll know it's an AU soon enough. You have been warned, buddy!

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Chapter 1: The Cost of Peace

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It wasn't the ideal ending. It wasn't even the favorable end to the bloody crisis.

The Great Hall in Orgrimmar, despite the victory the Orcs had won only the day before, was deathly, oddly silent, and the Orc Warchief known as Thrall could find no reason to celebrate that victory. Thrall's large, muscular and combat-worn form sat wearily on his throne, lost in thought; his mighty Warhammer lay at the foot of one side of the chair, unused for quite some time. There was melancholy and wistfulness in the air about the veteran Warchief as he sat there and, unmoving, he could only analyze the end result and alone find it - all in all - pyrrhic where most others cannot.

The cost of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore's demise had been too high.

The Orcs' counterattack into Theramore Isle was supposed to have ended the crisis and returned everything to normal; a veteran of the Second War against the old Orcish Horde, Admiral Proudmoore could not bring himself to even think of co-existing with his long-time enemies and, predictably, began planning for the complete extermination of every Orc in Durotar and Kalimdor. With notable reluctance despite having the assistance of Daelin's daughter, Jaina Proudmoore, Thrall could only order the strike and that the Admiral had to be killed. It was the only thing to do. It was the only thing Thrall _could_ do.

After the battle ended and the last of the flames of battle died away on Theramore Isle, the zealous Admiral Proudmoore was indeed slain under the axes of the new Horde of Durotar, bringing an end to the planned invasion by the Kul Tiras fleet...and, by all means, the uneasy truce between the Orcs of Durotar and the Humans of Theramore Isle should've returned to the way it was, despite the tension accumulated. For the briefest time, it had seemed that way.

Until when news reached Thrall that Jaina had been killed as well.

Even now, Thrall could not bring himself to understand, nor find an answer to, how it had come to pass; Jaina Proudmoore was an ally of the Orcs, a friend of Thrall's who fought alongside him during the worst of the Burning Legion's invasion of Kalimdor, and the one who had assisted Thrall's forces in breaking the blockade around the island and stopping her own father's invasion. It was Jaina who had established an uneasy truce with him after Archimonde's defeat - the truce which her own father threatened with sword and blood - and understood the importance of that truce to both their peoples, understood what had to be done. By all means, Thrall sighed to himself, Jaina shouldn't have been killed; she shouldn't even have been harmed by the attack, and Thrall's orders saw to that - or so he had thought.

It had been very much a surprise to the Warchief himself when he received the news, a shock and, for a brief moment, a _lie_, a possible scheme by others sharing the Admiral's viewpoints to relax Durotar's guard. It had been a human footman who had supposedly found her body in her quarters inside the Theramore Citadel an hour after the last Orc had left the island; Jaina had been wounded mortally, lying lifeless in a pool of blood that gathered between her and the cold, stone floors of the citadel, and by then she was far beyond any aid either Human or Orc could muster - no healing salve or spell would return her to life, would undo the damage. It had been a coward's blow, the cut on Jaina's frail back being the most grievous of the numerous wounds and the lack of corpses around her, a proven sorceress and warrior in her own right, suggesting that not even Jaina saw her death coming.

It had been eventually claimed that the Orcs murdered her, most blindly and savagely, during the heat of battle for her father's role in the entire _war_; Thrall's forces, of course, denied even having raised their blades against her and her forces or even having actively sought her out as a target. In the end, however, that matter was resolved with one blatantly simple answer for the Warchief: _It no longer mattered who killed her_.

Thrall didn't believe the news at first, and couldn't be blamed for being both shocked and suspicious enough not to; The Warchief remembered his temper flaring at that news, heart surging with stubborn disbelief; Having been exposed to deceit and treachery as Admiral Proudmoore had subjected him, Rexxar and Rokhan to before the attack, it at first struck Thrall as an attempt by more of the overzealous Admiral's sympathizers to lower Durotar's guard, to set it up for a counterattack. That disbelief helped Thrall bear the news at first, keep him hopeful that it wasn't true, but even he had to admit eventually that there was no room for denial; each subsequent scout sent to Theramore only served to confirm those rumors and kill Thrall's hopes, little by little, until the Warchief had to finally accept the fact that Jaina had indeed been killed.

And when that truth became reality, Thrall could feel only numbness, the stubborn disbelief finally giving way to a slowly growing blind grief...

More pressing than the consequences of Jaina's demise, however, was the loss Thrall felt for her and the guilt he couldn't deny that Thrall, partially, had been the cause of her death - and where Jaina's death leaves Theramore didn't help Thrall's feelings any at all. With her gone, who would lead Theramore now? Probably one of the Admiral's second-in-commands, Thrall could only surmise to his chagrin, one who didn't believe any in peaceful co-existence like the Admiral himself; Someone who would never think or hear of an Orc nation, who would not hesitate to resort to old hatreds. Someone, Thrall nearly winced at the thought, not nearly as brave or firm to his principles as Jaina Proudmoore had been...

As the Warchief tried his earnest to find out what went wrong, each analysis only supported the fated conclusion, for him, that had he not made that fateful decision to attack Theramore once and for all, Jaina would still be alive - he wasn't sure where any of those possible 'alternatives' would leave Durotar, of course, but at least Jaina wouldn't have died. Thrall sighed, biting his lip wistfully; he had killed her, and he'll have to always accept that. He had brought this about, like it or not; he was guilty. He had killed a friend, an innocent, promising young woman who Thrall had been proud to have had fought alongside as a comrade.

Thrall wished it didn't end like this.

Thrall wished Jaina didn't have to become a casualty.

But she had, and there was nothing Thrall could do about it. He wanted to do something to honor his lost friend and the former leader of Theramore Isle, anything other than sitting here and wallow in silent grief, grief that most of his people would never be able to understand, but what could he do from Orgrimmar, only two days after her death and Admiral Proudmoore's, that would effectively do this without dragging another war upon them? How could Thrall bring closure to this while letting his own heart accept Jaina's passing?

He didn't know. Not yet.

Thrall's reverie was interrupted at that moment as an Orc runner, nimble and blunt in his movements and lacking in utter grace as was the general feel of his people, made his way into the Great Hall and knelt respectfully in front of the Warchief. Stifling his thoughts - Thrall was reasonable enough to realize that his grief was his alone, and he must be strong now in front of his people outside of it - the Warchief straightened himself quickly and turned to the runner, beckoning for the runner to stand. Inwardly, Thrall took a deep breath and readied himself to listen; if the runner performed his task correctly, he just might find an answer yet...

"What news do you bring from Theramore?"

"The Humans had made preparations for Admiral Proudmoore's passing, noble Warchief," The runner reported, notable pride in his deep-toned voice over the victory earned two days past. For most of the other Orcs, it sadly seemed to Thrall, Jaina's death meant little, especially compared to what had been prevented by her father's death. He supposed he couldn't grudge his people that. "Admiral Proudmoore is to be entombed on the morrow, at sunset on the northern shores of Theramore Isle. The humans will elect a new leader for Theramore the day afterwards - we have no idea as of yet who the candidate shall be."

Thrall nodded passively, bringing himself to the question that mattered: "And what of Jaina?"

The runner's voice died slightly as if out of consideration, but otherwise mercilessly didn't falter. "Jaina Proudmoore will be buried with the Admiral, Warchief, in the same ceremony."

The news stabbed at Thrall's heart - _Spirits, it still hurts to hear of it_, Thrall realized - and, resisting the urge to sit down and recover, Thrall forced himself to stand and nod passively. An instinctive decision gnawed at him at the news - Thrall had always learned over the years to at least _listen_ to his instincts, if not follow them - and the Warchief at once realized, with his heart gaining slight weight, that if he was to seek closure with Jaina Proudmoore's passing, he'll have to do so _now_; once Jaina was buried, she will forever be so.

Of course, there shall be risks; the only way to see Jaina now was to trek across Durotar and onto Theramore Isle itself, too close for comfort for both Orc and Human, and if Thrall wanted to give his last regards, he'll have to go alone, without any escorts that the Humans could treat as an act of war. Besides, Thrall bit his jaw, his fists clenched slightly at the prospect, this was _his_ grief; he wanted to go alone. He needed to.

Thrall was willing to take the risks if he could see Jaina again, bring about closure.

Ask her forgiveness.

With another gesture of polite farewell, Thrall dismissed the runner. "You may go. _Lok Tar Ogar, _my breathren."

"_Lok Tar Ogar_, Warchief."

The runner was oblivious to Thrall's thoughts all the way out of the Great Hall, but inwardly Thrall had already made up his mind. The Warchief sat down, trying to be careful with the plans, rubbing his chin in cautious thought and once again silent; he would leave the next day at noon and, barring interruptions, he could be in Theramore Isle in time for the funeral ceremony and return before the Moon rises - and going into the funeral alone would likely ensure, at least, that the Humans would hear him out before raising their swords. It was still a rough plan at best but, as the Warchief's eyes narrowed again and closed, forcing them and his thoughts shut, Thrall tried not to think about the consequences.

Thrall didn't have a choice and didn't give himself one.

_Jaina_, Thrall's mind firmly stated with as much conviction as he could muster. He would leave this tragedy behind, one way or another - he would see her again, because he owed her that much. _I'll bring closure to this, I'll see you again soon. I don't expect that you'll forgive me even if I ask, Jaina, __but I only hope you understand me. I want you to understand that I grieve for you, too..._


	2. Solitary Journey

Disclaimer: I own nothing here, again - Blizzard does - except the Blademaster Tashiroth.

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Chapter 2: Solitary Journey

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_The next day, Orgrimmar_

"Are you certain you want to do this, noble Warchief?"

Although nowhere as impressive in size, bulk _and_ physical strength as the Warchief, the Blademaster by the name of Tashiroth was still a strong and competent warrior - and, nothing else, enough firmness in his sole-ponytailed, 5' fleetfooted frame to make his disdain for anything known well enough to those who heard him. Speaking in a firm, disagreeing deep tone, this was one of those times Tashiroth used that ability if nothing else - that, and the fact that he was effectively standing between Thrall and the door to his personal quarters as if to block him if Tashiroth remotely could.

Unfortunately for Tashiroth, and the Blademaster knew that well, there was nothing else he could do to dissuade Thrall from his course of action save using words - as such, Tashiroth only resolved to get as much in as possible before Thrall either finally lost his temper or simply pushed past him, or both. _Perhaps it is his human upbringing at work here, like it or not_, Tashiroth sighed inwardly, maintaining that firm, disagreeing look otherwise, _but the Warchief admittedly can be a little...unreasonable in regards to Jaina Proudmoore, especially after...that. Can't begrudge him for it, though; she **wasn't** supposed to have been killed, but somehow she was anyway. That does not mean I can agree with the Warchief on this_. "I must let you know, with all due respect, that I wholeheartedly disagree with-"

"It's noted, Tashiroth. I know what I must do." Was Thrall's response, without anger - any he felt for Tashiroth's disdain and zealousness, curse it for standing against him _now_, was restrained enough - and with a nod of acknowledgement to confirm Thrall's words. But otherwise Thrall did not budge, only waiting for Tashiroth to move aside. "I can always order you to stand aside, but I must ask of you to trust me on this."

Thrall had made up his mind and he was _not_ going to let anyone talk him out of it.

As much as the others do not understand, it had to be done, for himself and Orgrimmar...but, Thrall surmised, probably more for himself. A small part of him agreed with Tashiroth on how _selfish_ he was probably being here, but that part was easily overwritten by the urge to see this through, to see Jaina one last time.

"I wish I can, Warchief, and I will obey if it is your order to, but-I must protest, as to wander into Human lands, especially _now_, is the equivalent of suicide! Even if it _is_ to honor Jaina Proudmoore, it is far too dangerous at the moment. Perhaps we should wait another week, at least, and then we can properly arrange an envoy to send our condolences..." Tashiroth frowned, only faltering a step back. "But it is too risky now for what you plan to do, Warchief. You are too important."

"In another week they will have fortified their positions and convinced themselves to slay any of our people that remotely approaches their border. I do not _have_ another week, Tashiroth. I have to do this _now_." Thrall shook his head, his voice rising; sometimes, this was the only way to convince Tashiroth, prodigy and student of Nazgrel after the Battle of Hyjal, from arguing, and by now Thrall had been admittedly used to it. Tashiroth wasn't a Blademaster and diligent study, and hadn't been chosen by Nazgrel - the mightiest warrior of the Frostwolf Clan until Thrall bested him years past - as a prodigy, for nothing.

He loathed ordering Tashiroth aside as he knew what Tashiroth was doing had only what he thought were Thrall's best interests in mind, but Thrall was beginning to become convinced that he'll have to do that eventually, anyway. "It has to be done."

Tashiroth nodded, but noted the slip: _Why wouldn't the Warchief have another week_?

"You should at least have a proper escort that can guard you from harm."

"Out of the question, Tashiroth. The repercussions of that are too great."

Thrall bit back. He was beginning to grow angry. Tashiroth winced very slightly, noting that this argument wasn't helping Thrall's temperament any; Thrall had probably been restraining himself a _lot_ more here, over Jaina's death and then this, than Tashiroth had seen in other Orcs around him, and while Tashiroth had to respect Thrall for his restraint it didn't suit either of their purposes.

The Warchief held back the urge to sneer; Tashiroth was indeed not helping, and his arguments were only serving to fight what he had carefully thought about ever since the news arrived. Thrall wouldn't deny that his decision to head to Theramore alone was more or less an instinctive decision, something he strongly felt he had to do for Jaina - partially - but Thrall was far from insane and he was thoroughly convinced of that. He _had_ thought this carefully enough, knew how it had to be done. Tashiroth was only tearing that reasoning apart, piece by piece, to little avail.

And soon, Thrall knew he'll have to do something to stop this. He crossed his arms pointedly. "If we take a warband or even a sizable escort onto Theramore's shores, the Humans _will_ consider this an act of war, Tashiroth, regardless of what we try to say, especially after the deaths of two of their leaders that _we_ caused. To have the Humans attack us again upon sight of us will not accomplish what I am setting out to do. No, Tashiroth, if I go alone, the Humans will at least hear me out; they will have to, and I can handle myself easily enough in the worst case."

Embarassing guilt surged in Tashiroth, causing the Blademaster to lower his head; he had indeed not thought of that, and had to give Thrall credit that he had indeed more foresight on this, despite being unreasonable otherwise, than Tashiroth thought. Still, he had to do something.

Then, Tashiroth knew, and Thrall inwardly thanked Tashiroth for understanding.

"Then, noble Warchief, I ask that you at least allow me to guard you personally."

Thrall blinked; he didn't expect Tashiroth would ask this. Thrall knew, after all, that while his people will escort him to Theramore Isle if he ordered it, nobody would voluntary go there alone if given the choice. Tashiroth was probably serious, but Thrall needed to make sure. "You, Tashiroth?"

"Your wisdom shames me, and I can see your reasoning," Tashiroth replied, bowing politely, trying not to sound sarcastic and succeeding with difficulty. He still didn't completely _understand_ why Thrall felt he had to do this now, but he knew Thrall knew what he was doing, after all. "But you are still too important to lose, Warchief. If you will not take an escort, at least allow me to guard you alone. If the Humans do attack you, I can give you a chance to escape and return with reinforcements."

_I can only hope it doesn't come to that in the end_, Thrall frowned, and beckoned for Tashiroth to stop bowing. Tashiroth straightened himself. _It would ruin everything once and for all_.

"Very well, I grant you permission to accompany me on this journey, Tashiroth. But we _will_ have to set off immediately. Nazgrel and Master Drek'Thar will watch over affairs in Orgrimmar until my return; I shall not be absent long, in either case." Thrall nodded and, finally satisfied, Tashiroth stood aside and bowed once more in thankfulness.

"_Lok Tar Ogar_, Warchief. I thank you."

At least with Tashiroth guarding him, the Blademaster satisfied himself by thinking, if anything does go awry on this _endeavour_, Tashiroth could at least remedy this somehow. _If the Humans of Theramore Isle **do** attack the Warchief, after all_, Tashiroth frowned, disdain returning in his mind, _I doubt Jaina will be able to do anything to stop them this time. The Warchief cannot be lucky always, even blessed by the Spirits as he is..._

Making the final preparations on his journey a few steps away, checking his equipment, Thrall was oblivious to Tashiroth's thoughts as he was enveloped in his own.

_For Jaina's sake and mine, I certainly hope things don't come to that_.

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_A few hours later, Dustwallow Marsh_

Getting to Dustwallow Marsh, from Ratchet, had been the easy part of the journey; either Theramore had not recovered sufficiently to patrol the waters around the Marsh, or that they had not thought to care, Thrall and Tashiroth had found themselves relatively unmolested for much of the journey. That was hoped for; Thrall because this meant they would not draw unnecessary attention to themselves, Tashiroth because this meant it was less likely that an entire battalion would await them the moment Thrall stubbornly sets foot onto Theramore Isle.

But both knew in unison that the journey would only get more difficult.

Striding side-by-side in the dark, almost _lightless_ marsh and forest to the northwest of Theramore Isle, Thrall purposeful in his stride and Tashiroth vigilant in his own, both were almost inconspicuous in their march, determined not to attract attention to themselves unless they seriously had to. Of course, both were prepared enough for otherwise; Thrall's black-plated armor and warhammer were as snugly close to him as possible, and Tashiroth's blade was raised readily, prepared to defend the first blow struck from either Human or beast.

Neither warrior held any illusions that things would move smoothly, especially when Thrall finally reaches his destination. Thrall never expected the Humans to forgive him, not did he expect Jaina to; he was practical enough to know that things never were that easy, of course, nor was forgiveness what he sought in the first place, why he was so willing to head to Theramore for this despite the risks.

Thrall could only wonder, though, what would come of this after it was all over. He wasn't even sure if he would _survive_ it.

"Pardon my insolence, Warchief, but I would like to ask a question of you." Tashiroth suddenly piped up. Thrall's sight didn't stray to Tashiroth, cautious out of habit.

"Speak freely, Tashiroth."

"What do you hope to accomplish by attending Jaina's funeral?"

The question only served to surprise Thrall very slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"If I may continue to speak freely-"

"Which you _may_," Thrall retorted crossly. Where was Tashiroth going with this?

"-Then I shall do so, noble Warchief, if you will forgive my insolence: I still do not see the purpose to this journey. You know very well how the humans feel towards us, especially with Jaina Proudmoore dead. They will not hesitate to kill you again, and the chances of mending relations between Durotar and Theramore now are next to non-existent." Tashiroth continued, his tone now more bold given permission. "Why, Warchief, do you persist despite all this? Is Jaina Proudmoore truly worth this journey for you?"

For a moment, the marsh around them silent as he was, Thrall gave no reply; he trudged on forward as he always had, betraying no emotion, as if he had to think over Tashiroth's question carefully as Thrall always had for most of Orgrimmar's other concerns. Tashiroth waited, continuing vigilantly, knowing that if Thrall was willing to let him ask freely and knowing Thrall in general, the Warchief was going to answer without circling as most other Humans would; if Thrall had perished in Jaina's place - _Spirits, may that never be so_ - and Tashiroth had asked Jaina that same question, he would expect her to hesitate or avoid the question altogether.

Thrall, Tashiroth was confident, would never avoid anything.

Inwardly, Thrall indeed _did_ wanted to answer Tashiroth's question - he had expected one would ask, if Thrall was willing to make the journey in the first place - but the silence was due to the fact that, in reality, Thrall didn't _know_ how to give an answer that didn't seem utterly ridiculous to Tashiroth. How could Tashiroth understand, Orgrimmar aside, how Thrall felt for Jaina's plight, for his loss? Jaina was Thrall's friend, but it didn't necessarily mean she would automatically be Tashiroth's friend, either, or Rexxar's or Rokhan's; What Humans saw in friends tended to be different than what Orcs saw in their own. Would Tashiroth see it? Was it even _right_ or even _acceptable_ to his own people?

Thrall's head lowered wistfully at thoughts of the Human sorceress, so brave and loyal, of one of the few true friends Thrall had in this world before her passing.

_There_, Thrall sighed, _I've admitted that Jaina is my true friend._

_At least I consider her as my friend..._

A pause in Thrall's thoughts.

_...I **wanted** to consider her my friend_.

Thrall knew ever since Mount Hyjal that he hadn't made the wrong choice in wanting to call Jaina his friend; it had been so easy to revert to normal patterns as mortals tended to do after the Burning Legion's defeat, but Jaina had held firm, remembered. She didn't even _want_ to lead, but she continued to do so. That had obviously been the end of her, Thrall sneered with a tinge of bitterness that Tashiroth noted, but what Jaina had done in her life made Thrall proud to befriend her - to _associate_ with her, even. And there, Thrall had his answer.

Straightening himself, he turned briefly to Tashiroth and gave the Blademaster a square, certain look. "Your insolence, if any, is forgiven, Tashiroth." Thrall replied. Tashiroth nodded mutely. "And _yes_, Tashiroth, Jaina Proudmoore _is_ worth this journey. Honoring her this last time _is_, at least for me. I do not expect you to understand."

_And so_, Tashiroth concluded mentally, the thoughts possibly too insolent for Thrall to forgive if he _had_ voiced them, _Warchief Thrall is willing to risk his life, even sacrifice it, to see and honor the Human sorceress? It is foolish, but yet reasonable and honorable at the same time, I must admit, and if these are the Warchief's sincere thoughts, I will trust in them. The question is, will the **Humans** agree with and trust the Warchief as well_?

Tashiroth nodded in acknowledgement anyway. "Then I trust your judgment implicitly, Warchief."

Thrall sighed, shaking his head as the two Orc warriors continued their stride in momentary peace. "I'm not asking you to do that, Tashiroth. It is admittedly difficult to accept for you."

"And yet," Tashiroth continued, and Thrall pursed his lips tighter at his words. "You believe in your honor and friendship with the sorceress so much that you are willing to put your own safety in danger to pay your respects. Your honor shames mine, noble Warchief. If I do not trust your judgment now, what kind of retainer will I become in the future?"

Silence again.

"...Thank you, Tashiroth, for understanding, but this is _my_ journey; any mistakes will be my own fault, and I do not want you risking your life on my account if this is so." Thrall stated, trying one more time to be stern - it needed to be done, since if Thrall knew Tashiroth well enough the Blademaster _was_ going to give his life to fend off the Humans if matters went awry. Jaina had already perished because of Thrall; the Warchief certainly didn't need Tashiroth to do _that_ as well. "Should I fall, you will retreat to Orgrimmar, with your life, by any means necessary and aid Nazgrel in preparing our defences. Am I understood, Tashiroth?"

"But Warchief-"

"Am I _understood_?"

Tashiroth bit his jaw and nodded in reluctance, his form sagging slightly. "I shall obey, Warchief."

"Very well." With that, neither warrior said anything more, only continued to keep their pace through the Marsh towards Theramore Isle. Above them, the sun was slowly beginning to set; when it does, Thrall frowned, it would be time. He would give his life to do this, Thrall told himself; he was _prepared_ to, almost. Still, the Warchief didn't hope matters would deteriorate into open combat once Thrall and Tashiroth reached Theramore Isle, at least without having a chance to honor Jaina; To have matters do so would not only be a disgrace to her memory, but also a regret Thrall would probably be haunted with for the remainder of his life even if he was alive.

Thrall shook his head mirthlessly. He didn't come all this way to be turned back without, and Thrall was somehow going to accomplish the journey without aggrevating the Humans even more, if he and Tashiroth could help it. Doing so wouldn't be easy - possibly impossible - but Thrall would at least give it a try; Thrall felt almost _surely_ that, had she been alive and himself dead, Jaina would bravely give it her all to keep the truce going, if not honor him as he intended to do for her now.

He wanted so much to see her, this last time, even if the Humans she ruled over didn't _want_ to see him in Theramore anymore...

Ahead of Thrall and Tashiroth, Theramore Isle began seeing a sunset that would bring an end to the tragic chapter, one way or not, and the Warchief was by then determined firmly to play his role in it - And possibly, to Tashiroth's chagrin, perhaps only death and the Human sword would put a stop to that by then. Thrall was too determined and held in honor - and loss for his friend - to do any less...


	3. A Dangerous Viewpoint

Disclaimer: All other characters not of Blizzard's creation are my own. The rest...well, you get the idea.

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Chapter 3: A Dangerous Viewpoint

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_Sunset, Northern shore, Theramore Isle_

Every resident on Theramore Isle - whether it were Jaina or Daelin Proudmoore who led them there in the first place - made it a point to attend the funeral ceremony that sunset; everyone, of all professions imaginable, knew how important it was to honor one of the leaders, if not both of them, for their 'sacrifice' during the Orcish assault on the island, and by the time the ceremony was ready to begin a crowd of Humans had already gathered, surrounding the procession area in an impermeable sea of men and women. For whatever reasons the individual men and women decided to attend, however, the mood was nevertheless solemn; none in the crowd dared speak, all courteous enough, if nothing else, to keep any comments to themselves.

The only voice that could be heard at that moment was that of the mourner Priest, standing inside a cleared area near the shore and beach, head raised and voice humble as he incanted the prayers to the deceased; two rows of Footmen and Knights, dressed in the most professional of clothing and the best of Human armor, stood unmovingly to each side of the priest, while behind the priest a row of higher-ranked officers in ceremonial best stood likewise, facing the sea. To the priest's right, further away, a row of seven Dwarven Riflemen waited at the ready, their finely-made rifles held to their breast and upwards, while around the clearing torches and braziers commemorating the Light had been lit, blazing brightly against the setting sun; behind the officers and built within a tall grass hill were the doors to a recently-constructed crypt, made of the most resilient of stone and steel, the perfect place to lay heroes to rest.

And, surrounded by the Knights in the center of the entire procession, two glass sarcophaguses lay peacefully on the sand beneath them, the center of attention and the meaning of the entire procession. In one of the sarcophaguses, to the priest's left, lay the large, wisened-yet-fierce-looking body of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, decked in perfectly-made red noble's armor and holding a warhammer - the one he had died with - to himself in his death's grip. All the terrible wounds inflicted by the Orcs in the battle only two days past had been mended and healed in a bid to make the Admiral as presentable as possible, and no blood stained the armor, no visible maims and wounds could be seen on him. The healers had prepared the Admiral too well, and the ones in command now saw to that.

The other sarcophagus, to the priest's right, held the lifeless form of Lady Jaina Proudmoore herself, peacefully resting and, like her father, in perfectly presentable condition. The healers had obviously done their best preparing Jaina's body for the ceremony, as well; of the grievous wounds that Jaina had been said to have bore from the blades of the Orcs, there were no sign, and for all one could normally tell Jaina might as well have had perished of natural causes. Side by side, she now lay beside her father, honored likewise as the hero she was.

Both were now heroes; both were martyrs. The long brown-haired, sharp red-eyed and square-chinned Paladin known as Albin Bridget wished simply that there wasn't a second truth to that fact.

"_...And may the Light's grace guide your humble servants to your side, where they shall rest in glory for all eternity. By the Light, may they be honored_."

"May they be honored." Albin repeated, as did the officers next to him, and as he placed a fist to his heart Albin bowed in reverence to the Admiral he served loyally. Wearing silver-plated armor with red clothes bearing the gold-weaved insignias of Kul Tiras, Albin had indeed belonged to the later group of settlers in Theramore Isle; He, like so many others on Theramore now, was led from the plague-infested lands of Lordaeron only to find a nation of savage Orcs awaiting them on Kalimdor, and when the Admiral had issued his plans for war against Durotar, Albin Bridget simply hadn't hesitated to answer Daelin Proudmoore's summons. _The Light would agree with the Admiral_, Albin remembered thinking then, _and the Orcs were demons and savages, no matter what they were trying to pull, how civilized they claimed to be. The Orcs must be destroyed for the good of the world_.

The result, obviously, wasn't supposed to involve the Admiral being slain and trampled underneath Orcish blades and feet - and it didn't help Albin's acceptance any that it was the Admiral's own daughter that ended up interfering with everything. Albin sneered in anger, so quietly that nobody else can hear it, as he straightened himself again; they weren't supposed to lose, and Jaina was supposed to have been on her father's side. For some reason, she wasn't, and yet here she was, honored likewise.

Jaina Proudmoore had it easy.

"_We beseech you, Light of everything good and noble, that you shall remember their actions_..."

She had been found an hour after the battle, Albin mused, lifeless and bloodied, wounded badly in numerous places and with brutal, surprising efficiency that could only belong to the savages; The official word, therefore, had been that Jaina had been slain by the blades of the Orcs after her father was murdered, fighting them off to no avail, having not even the time to conjure the spells she had been famous for possessing. Maintaining his straight posture as the Priest droned on, Albin resisted the urge to shake his head sardonically at that. With the way Jaina had been found, how could it had been anything else? For that matter, who would _care_ if it had been anything else?

There were, of course, a number of things that pointed away from that conclusion - namely that a closer examination of the remains would not have turned up a single wound that was inflicted by Orcish axes - but the shock had been so great, the noncomprehension so absurd to Theramore that they were easy to miss...or blatantly ignore. Who would care that it possibly _hadn't_ been the Orcs who killed her?

_If they only knew the truth, but they never will now_, Albin frowned, because he knew better - and agreed with it. The Light, he knew, would agree with him as well. _Jaina Proudmoore brought this on herself, and had sent herself to her own end by siding with the Orcs, with that Slave of Durnholde who dared call himself Warchief. I loathe to say it for the Admiral's sake, bless his departed soul_, Albin bit his lip, anger rising in his bowels but restrained out of courtesy and ceremony, _But Jaina deserved her death, betrayed and murdered by one of her own_...

_But that is over with now. We shall begin anew._

The first round of gunfire from the riflemen, signalling the beginnings to the final salute, stopped Albin Bridget's thoughts, and his vision moved intently back to the leaders' resting places once more. The Priest lowered his head reverently at the same time twelve of the Footmen marched out from the rows towards the sarcophaguses; at the second volley the Footmen reached down, and at the third and final volley, heard by all in Theramore Isle, the Footmen lifted the sarcophaguses up into their arms and steadily began moving them - and both Admiral and Lady with them - towards the doors to the crypt. The officers parted, moving aside; Maintaining his stance, Albin watched the Footmen perform their grim, solemn task, and saluted his Admiral one last time as the sarcophaguses passed by him and disappeared into the crypt altogether.

And that was when a sudden round of terrified screams from behind the crowd caught everyone's attention.

* * *

The first and most obvious reaction those who attended the funeral had upon seeing Thrall's impressive frame was outright terror; With the savagery and brutal efficiency of the Orcs still fresh in much of the populace's mind after the most recent attack on Theramore Isle, none hesitated at once to break into a panic at the sight of the mighty Warchief and, inevitably, back away towards the rest of the crowd, pushing at some others who in turn continued the cycle. This, in turn, had the effect of clearing an area around him and Tashiroth, all knowing that should Thrall attack them there was no way they would survive.

Although the reactions pained Thrall - it had indeed been too long since he had been feared so in the sight of Humans - he forcefully ignored them, striding forward purposefully and with steady steps towards the shore where the funeral was held. He was not here for them, Thrall understood, and could not blame them for their reactions. His mighty warhammer was lowered, still in his hand, in a gesture of nonhostility; the only raised blade was Tashiroth's, held to his chest as a precaution, glancing hurriedly around the Warchief in readiness.

Letting the crowd clear away from them, Thrall continued forward. He narrowed his eyes; he was so close to what he was here to do now, but the most difficult was yet to come. But Thrall would not turn back now; there was only moving forward, towards the funeral and Jaina.

He forced himself to suppress any doubts that rose lest he become swayed from this now.

After what seemed to be a tense, unnerving eternity, the crowd eventually cleared Thrall's way onto the shore itself - and into the sight of more than forty armed Human warriors and officers. Professionally trained and more angry than terrified at the Orcs' efficient victory two days past, the soldiers of Theramore and Kul Tiras that attended the funeral now, Thrall realized to his chagrin as he forced himself to remain impassive, was not going to be nearly as easily swayed as the peasants around them. If they attacked, Thrall was certainly going to die here, and yet even now he was perfectly calm and rational.

Tashiroth was less so as he glanced warningly at the Human warriors, but had resolved not to back away now. He had pledged that to the Warchief earlier and will not shirk out of it.

For a moment, Thrall bit his jaw, it seemed as if the worst case scenario _was_ indeed going to happen; upon sight of the Warchief, the Footmen and Knights lined up before now drew swords and lances, raised towards him, while the officers and Paladins lifted their warhammers and swords likewise. The priest shuffled hurriedly behind the growing circle of knights forming around Thrall, preparing a spell with the few Archmages in the rank of officers; Albin sneered in pure hatred, stepping forward and awaiting Thrall's first attack with his Paladins' Hammer held tightly in both hands, while behind him the rank of Dwarven Riflemen finished reloading and had their rifles trained in Thrall's direction should their support be needed.

...Until Thrall's unmoving, passive-looking posture turned some of the warriors' anger into pure confusion. Albin blinked, his hammer wavering slightly, and at the same time the circle of knights began easing backwards slowly around Thrall; _What in the Light is this Orc **thinking**! Has he come to die? Does he even **know** that he will die?_ Albin bit his lip derisively, trying to keep his mind from reeling in this confusion too much; whatever Thrall was doing here, he didn't like it. _Or is this another trick from that Warchief?_

Albin realized that there was only one way to find out. He took a step forward boldly. "You are trespassing upon the Human lands of Theramore and intruding upon its sanctity once again," Albin spat bitterly, trying to maintain his cool enough. "Speak your purpose here, foul beast, and it had better be good, or you shall be run through where you stand."

_Foul beast_. Thrall restrained the urge to glare back defiantly at Albin - remembering Jaina, Thrall knew that this wasn't the time for that - but made a good mental note to himself to despise the Paladin. Whoever this Paladin was, he seemed little different than the Admiral himself, or even those in charge back at Durnholde when Thrall was still a slave, but at least he wasn't jumping into killing him.

Thrall took a deep breath and gave the reply a professional effort. "I am Thrall, son of Durotan, and Warchief of the nation of Durotar. Who among you is in charge here?"

Albin blinked in twofold surprise; Thrall's fluent knowledge of the Human tongue wasn't something Albin had expected - he had heard of Thrall's human upbringing at Durnholde, of course, but all in all Albin never thought Thrall would be able to speak so _perfectly_, that had Thrall not been an Orc he would fit right in with the Humans with that tongue - but neither was the fact that this impressive Orc was the Warchief of Durotar himself, in the flesh! Albin tried even harder to give this some thought; while the thought of finishing the Warchief himself off once and for all was tempting, Albin knew it wouldn't be wise. Thrall probably had some contingency planned. The Paladin frowned. "I am," Albin piped up, despite some of the officers beginning their protest. Maintaining his calm, Albin decided to see what Thrall wanted. "What can Theramore Isle do for you, Warchief of the Horde?"

"Nothing," Thrall answered directly, blue eyes trailing over to the open crypt to his right. Tashiroth glared deathly at the Paladin, as if determined that should Albin become aggressive, the Paladin will be the first to fall. "I have come as a mourner to honor Jaina Proudmoore."

Murmurs and gasps of surprise began rising all around Thrall and Albin; even Albin himself gawked blankly at Thrall, but the Warchief only glared back sternly to let the others know he meant what he said. It was Albin that broke the surprise moments later. "I see." Albin paused, crossing his arms with his hammer planted into the sand, thinking carefully of his next words. "But why should we let you, after all that you've already done?"

Thrall sighed. Albin was still right. "I will not be here long, Paladin; All I want is to mourn her, to see her again-"

"Absolutely not!" Albin snapped, and at once the circle tightened once more. Tashiroth jumped, blade raised and pointed at Albin; Thrall looked once around the crowd of warriors and knights, but forced himself - as experience returned - to remain impassive, unmoving. Anger filled Albin once more at Thrall's words; how _dare_ this savage even ask of this? "As if sacking this city wasn't enough for you, now you have to go and desecrate the Admiral and Lady Proudmoore's graves as well! Powerful as you are, we will _never_-"

"That is _not_ my intention, nor will I ever sink so low even against my enemies!" Thrall snapped angrily; In turn, Thrall found himself growing more mirthless and bitter at Albin's words, for his temper and view of Thrall angered him. For Albin to think of him as a savage, nothing more than a grave-robber or barbarian, was already an insult; worse, however, was Albin's accusations that Thrall intended to pillage Jaina's grave and desecrate her body, to further spurn his friend. Thrall knew he never intended that, and Albin implying that Thrall could sink that low was unacceptable. "I have not come to destroy anything! Jaina Proudmoore is my friend, and I wish-"

"And it is an insult for you to call her a friend of yours," _As it is her shame for even having a friend such as you, unfortunately_, Albin neglected to add, as it would ruin Jaina's image that was being built-up by this ceremony. She was to die as a hero, not as a publicly shamed fool! "You have no right to be in her presence."

Tashiroth only glared. Albin glared back with a daring look as if taunting the Blademaster to strike him down.

"I _swear_ by my blood and my family's honor that to honor and mourn Jaina is my only intention this day." This was going nowhere, Thrall almost despairingly realized, but he had to persist here - and that the Humans hadn't attacked him _yet_ was still something for him to keep hope on. He continued to stand firm, warhammer lowered, unmoving and without backing off an inch, but his bitterness was being suppressed once more, remembering how Humans tended to work. "I do not expect you to forgive me for her death and her father's, but you must trust me on my honor that I will not desecrate her as you accuse me of intending."

"Your honor isn't worth much to me in this case, Warchief." Albin retorted bluntly.

"I...understand that. But I wanted you to know."

Thrall's demeanor was admittedly beginning to surprise even Albin Bridget, and the anger he felt before was dying down once more at Thrall's forcedly gentle explanations; a typical Orc would've thundered into the bloodlust and rage his Admiral had seen too many times during the Second War, but even with the odds against him and Tashiroth threatening to skin him alive, Thrall was restraining himself, negotiating this through. The Paladin didn't know what to make of this restraint, but if Thrall wasn't going to fight them this day, all the more better for everyone.

_Besides_, Albin noted quickly, _Jaina **did** befriend him. She's already shamed herself. How much more shame can Thrall put her through **now**_? Albin nodded. "That I do. But I am still not convinced of your intent, Warchief."

"I realize that, but I give you my word that all I intend to do is pay my respects to Jaina." Thrall continued; Albin stopped himself from wincing, without success, at how Thrall was referring to the Lady so _casually_, as if addressing a friendly equal. Would Jaina do the same for him? "After I have seen her again and made my mourning, I will leave peacefully and without trouble. I give you my word that I will not damage the crypt, Jaina's casket or even the Admiral's."

Albin sneered, crossing his arms and turning away. Tashiroth growled menacingly, causing the warriors to waver slightly; the Blademaster almost _wished_ the Humans would just attack them rather than wait this long, as waiting like this made him uneasy, and at least that would bring matters to an end. But nevertheless, Tashiroth hated waiting, and Thrall didn't seem he would leave anytime soon without catching his final glimpse of Jaina Proudmoore, anyway.

"What assurances do we have that you will honor your part of the bargain?"

"I cannot give you any. That will be up to you. But I do not intend to leave until I have properly honored her." Thrall answered firmly. "I would truly appreciate being able to do this small bit for Jaina, at least."

For awhile, there was more tense silence, Thrall waiting for the reply and hoping that they would agree on their own accord, Albin thinking this through - he knew he had to be extra cautious here and, whether or not they give in to Thrall's request, the important thing was to make sure Thrall doesn't ruin the funeral - and Tashiroth generally being cautious while the Humans around them plotted and schemed around the Warchief. Nobody dared move, the knights without orders. There was no clear answer right away.

Finally, it was not Albin, but someone else who broke the silence: "_Let him see Lady Proudmoore, Brother Bridget_."

The voice was from further behind the ring of warriors surrounding Thrall and, hearing it, surprise overtook much of the Human knights once more; the majority of them turned back towards the source of the voice, male, somewhat older and softer, but still with enough edge to it to sound authoritative. To the very least, Thrall and Tashiroth realized, it had enough steel to make even Albin Bridget turn around, blink blankly for a moment, and then recompose himself into a stern, unrelenting look.

"You don't speak for all of us, Sir Leonid."

When eventually the ring of warriors opened wide enough to allow Albin Bridget and Leonid Korlend a clear sight of each other, Tashiroth and Thrall narrowed their eyes in unison at the speaker, an old, grey balding-haired, sharp double-chinned and wizened elderly man seemingly no less than in his late fifties, wearing elaborate blue Archmage's robes. Leonid Korlend, in contrast to Albin, had been one of the most senior of officers who Jaina brought to the shores of Kalimdor, and had played a good part in Theramore's existence; as such, while Albin remained ignorant and at best _skeptical_ of what Thrall was doing here, Leonid understood - and perfectly.

He, as did Jaina, understood Thrall's motives and knew them to be genuine - and knew there was no reason to deny Thrall that one request. "What could it hurt, divine Brother?" Leonid simply replied in a naturally courteous, yet audible enough so that Albin can hear his reasons very, very well, voice. "I trust the Warchief, as did Lady Jaina, that he is genuine and that he is a..._being_ of honor. If he says that he intends only to honor the Lady, I am confident that he will not do anything else."

"_You_ can trust him, Sir Leonid, but the remainder of us cannot."

"Then what _harm_, praytell, can two single Orcs be to the entire party here in your command, Brother Bridget?"

There was steel again in Leonid's question that silenced Albin; _If Thrall was here to kill_, the Paladin derisively knew Leonid to also be implying, _you would've been the first to die and dead already_. "Then," Albin snapped back, his voice somewhere between sarcasm and outright anger to let Leonid know that he was very, _very_ displeased with this debacle. "What do you suggest we _do_, Sir Leonid?"

Leonid's answer was simple, and Thrall was grateful for it. He nodded to Leonid in thanks.

"Let him be alone with the Lady. He has just as much right to that as you do."

The warriors murmured. "But Sir-"

"How can you assure us of the Warchief's good intent on this, Sir Leonid?" Albin demanded.

"If I even move one thing out of place in the tomb," Thrall piped up, and all were silenced: "...You can slay me where I stand."

Now it was Tashiroth's turn. "But Warchief-"

Thrall's raised arm silenced the Blademaster _and_ the murmurs around them. He gave another nod.

"You have my word."

Thrall lowered his arm. Silence persisted.

"And I can _vouch_ for the Warchief's word." Leonid piped up. He definitely _did_ understand.

Albin didn't. "Leonid Korlend!" Albin sneered. "Are you well aware of what you are vouching for here?"

Both Thrall and Leonid nodded in acknowledgement.

"I am."

_It would be deserving of me if I did perish here_, Thrall concluded to himself.

At that, Albin resigned himself, and lowered his own hammer as he struggled with the decision. Could he really let Thrall into the tomb? Won't the damage already be done? The Paladin's eyes closed for a moment; _I guess it couldn't hurt, and if the Warchief **is** a friend of Jaina Proudmoore he won't try anything, not when all of us are outside waiting for him. If he does, there's no other way out of the crypt, and not even he can fight through all of us_.

_Can he_?

Albin Bridget moved and parted from between Thrall and the crypt that held Admiral Daelin Proudmoore and Jaina Proudmoore, and knowing very well what was going on by that gesture the ring of knights and warriors began to gradually loosen, and finally depart away from Thrall and Tashiroth. Thrall sighed, relief and gratitude flooding his being and lowering his guard a little; even Tashiroth realized the of-yet-silent agreement and lowered his blade from Albin's head. The Dwarven Riflemen lifted their rifles to their shoulders once more in perfect formation, no longer seeing a need to use their guns for the moment. A small smile appeared on Leonid's lips at that and, finally, was a word spoken.

"Very well, Warchief of Durotar, I grant you permission to pay your respects to Lady Proudmoore, alone. Remember your words and honor them." Albin finally granted, and stepped aside completely. "By the Light, may your honor hold true."

Thrall said nothing, but the softer look in his eyes towards Albin Bridget said it all.

_My honor **shall** hold true, for Jaina alone if no one else_.

"Tashiroth, wait for me here."

"Warchief, are you sure-" Then Tashiroth remembered, and he bowed in respect to his Warchief at that. "I shall do as you ordered of me."

With permission that Thrall admittedly didn't expect to gain this well and a newfound purpose and vigor in his step, Thrall then nodded to everyone once, began moving forward and headed for the crypt ahead of him. As the prospect of what he was about to do and thoughts of the person he journeyed such a far distance from filled his head once more, his mighty form sagged a little in humility; he had come as a friend and mourner, and Thrall will remember his place no matter how obnoxious the Humans may be.

No matter how _bitter_ Albin Bridget may be towards him.

Soon, he disappeared beyond the crypt doors, leaving Tashiroth and Albin staring at each other with new realizations and old rivalries. The ring of warriors tightened around the Blademaster again; Tashiroth crossed his arms and stood in the center fearlessly, glaring at the Paladin who was likewise staring bitterly back at him. Their eyes met. Albin and Tashiroth sneered in unison.

"It shall not be this day and this hour, in the Admiral Proudmoore's name, but mark my words," Albin spat angrily. "With the Light as my witness one day, Blademaster, I shall slay you and banish you back to the Hells from whence your entire race came. I shall do so in combat nobly, and without qualms even from the memory of Lady Proudmoore."

Tashiroth grinned. He expected nothing less, but today indeed would be different.

"Then be prepared to exert yourself for my head, for I shall part with it willingly only if the Warchief asks of me to provide it." Was the cold reply. "On the barrens of Kalimdor, if next we meet, I shall likewise give you no quarter. Until then, Paladin."

And seeing the irony while likewise waiting for the Warchief of the Horde to mourn the former Ruler of Theramore Isle, Albin Bridget began grinning as well. There would always be time for a war after the ceremony, and only too much time for Albin Bridget and Tashiroth to meet in combat, as promised. Albin can wait a day and, the new realization sudden and the smile widening due to it, if indulging Thrall would mean that the mighty Warchief would have no regrets later when Theramore and Durotar eventually _did_ go to war - Albin believed that it was only a matter of time now, and there was nothing Leonid Korlend can do to stop that - the Paladin was a fool to have ever _thought_ of denying the Warchief his heartfelt request...


	4. Heartfelt Goodbyes

Disclaimer: Same as the previous chapter. Everything but the characters I made up belong to Blizzard.

* * *

Chapter 4: Heartfelt Goodbyes

* * *

As Thrall slowly made his way into the newly constructed crypt and down the flight of stairs that would lead him to Jaina, he suddenly felt a sense of reluctance well up in him.

The crypt had been constructed well enough, so it was not the crypt that caused the new feeling; As perfect as Human standards went, the stone crypt consisted only of a single, large chamber buried underground beneath seemingly endless soil and sand, slightly damp but otherwise clean, sturdily constructed and well maintained for the time it was hasily built. The Humans had not left the burial place of two of their greatest leaders dark, of course, as there were torches - magically enchanted to burn perhaps for years - lit every few metres, ensuring that Thrall was not lacking for light, and the tiles of the walls around Thrall were all in place, perfectly spaced, probably with help from magical means. It was probably a law for Humans to make the crypt so, and although a little small for his frame, Thrall otherwise had no complaints.

As such, the Warchief could only ponder in wistfulness and wonder why this reluctant feeling was there; Thrall, who had led the Orcs from the internment camps in Hillsbrad into a new, revitalized Horde and civilization, who had led his people against countless foes, who never showed an ounce of fear and had to be _teleported_ away from the Demonlord Archimonde to prevent Thrall from killing himself! Thrall chuckled sadly at that; it had been Jaina who teleported him away, after all. Thrall had never known fear and never thought he would, and he hadn't feared the risks ahead of him when he came all this way here to pay his respects to her. By no means should Thrall fear this...

But the reluctance was there, not fear, something else almost entirely _different_, and it was there, growing with every step down the flight of stairs deeper into the crypt. Despite the feeling, Thrall didn't know why, didn't understand; when the Warchief finally _did_ reach the bottom of the stairs and into the final large hall that was his destination, however, that feeling only increased.

And Thrall cursed himself for feeling so.

The final hall, had it not been underground, was easily fit as a chamber for a king or any other Human dignitary. Large pillars with fancy-looking gravings lined the sides of the hall, lined with rows of empty Human armor in vigilant, straightened poses as if defending against enemies in death. Torches again lined the pillars, brightly illuminating the hall; within the torchlight, mounted on the far walls in perfect symmetry, were numerous paintings of what Thrall presumed were an illustrated history of Admiral Daelin Proudmoore's heroics, depicting the rise of a nation that was supposedly Kul Tiras and of various victorious battles, land and sea-fought, against the Orcs of the Second War. Thrall sneered in involuntary mirthlessness at the pictures, drowning the reluctant feeling slightly; the Humans obviously saw fit not to include certain details, as Thrall could not find a single painting depicting the more recent of events, the rise of Theramore and the Admiral's recent war against Durotar - and not one of the paintings saw fit to include Jaina into the fold. From this the Warchief could only realize, overall, who the more important leader was to the Humans here.

The thought that Jaina was only an add-on to the Humans, laid to rest in a tomb not welcoming of her, sickened and angered Thrall. Was Jaina not deserving of honor and respect from her own people after all she did? Was _this_ to be the final fate of the courageous young Ruler of Theramore Isle, willingly forgotten and only given the most token of recognition? To the Humans it might be so, but to the Orcs - to Thrall - this was not acceptable. The more angered at the indignity he became, the redder his sight slowly became, and as rage began rising in his gut Thrall suddenly had the urge to put a stop to this, even at the cost of his own life. It was far easier to give way to anger than it was to succumb to grief; Raising the mighty Doomhammer in his hands, Thrall suddenly felt very tempted to simply give in to his rage, destroy the tomb, spirit Jaina's body away from this place of indignity and take her back to Durotar where she could be properly honored as a friend of the Orcish Horde.

But just as the red completely flooded him, he remembered Jaina, remembered Leonid's vouching for him and the trust that Jaina, through Leonid's words, had given Thrall to do what was right. Jaina's visage slowly dispelled the rage and red, her blue eyes taking hold of his mind. In a short while, forcing his restraint to take over once more, Thrall had managed to fight this feeling, his chest heaving heavily and with slight exhaustion over having fought over the anger.

No matter what had happened, Thrall remembered, he had given his word in Jaina's memory. He will _not_ throw away his _own_ honor, and Jaina's, even when faced with others' dishonor. If the Humans would forget Jaina, Thrall _himself_ will forget Admiral Proudmoore. He was here to honor Jaina and Jaina alone.

Lowering the Doomhammer again and forcing himself to ignore the unsightly paintings, Thrall's eyes finally caught onto the very center of the hall - and the two glass sarcophaguses, Daelin and Jaina's, resting in the tomb, almost _shining_ in the midst of more than abundant torchlight. Suddenly empty from the loss of anger, Thrall began feeling reluctant again, the old feeling tinged with renewed sadness at the sight and prospect. The Warchief took a step forward; the feeling grew, and steadily continued to do so with each step Thrall took towards his true friend, so that when Thrall was finally standing wistfully next to the sarcophagus holding Jaina Proudmoore's body his heart could only feel immense pressure, telling him to back away.

But Thrall remained stubbornly rooted to where he stood, trying to think of what to say, his own blue eyes locked onto hers that would never open again, long, fine golden hair that had forever fallen still, and pale peach skin that had lost vibrant life in its hue. The pressure in Thrall's heart turned into a throbbing ache at once; even without the splendid white silk dress and necklace that had been put onto her after death, Jaina was still, even now, painstakingly beautiful to him.

Seeing Jaina now only renewed Thrall's grief, making every sinew in his body feel heavy and weak and his breathing labored with sadness, and at once the reluctance that Thrall had felt was suddenly and painstakingly understood: _Thrall didn't want to see Jaina's body, to see her truly gone, to see her beauty and acknowledge that it no longer mattered_.

Thrall's eyes and his visage of Jaina suddenly blurred as moistness appeared on his cheeks, and he knew, while at the same time an old memory surfaced in his mind as well.

_Tears_. _I am shedding them now, for Jaina, just as I had that day_, Thrall realized, trying hard to keep his grief controlled but failing.

_Just as I had when I saw Taretha that day before Durnholde fell_.

The resemblance between the two young women had been astounding - and, admittedly, _endearing_ somewhat - to Thrall and Thrall alone, but now it only brought more pain into him. When he and Jaina first met that day in Stonetalon Peak to seek out the Oracle, he had not given it much thought in the heat of battle; however, when Thrall had calmed enough to finally register the Human leader for the very first time, he could only remark on how similar Jaina and Taretha had been, the long, flowing golden hair and shimmering blue eyes so much alike each other, and the immense bravery despite odds both women possessed, Taretha for him, Jaina for her people. And just as Taretha had been killed by Aedelas Blackmoore for sympathizing with him, to break Thrall, Jaina had likewise perished helping Thrall, paying the price for upholding what she thought was best for him and his people.

It had been Taretha who taught Thrall how to cry, what tears meant, and now those same tears of grief fell for Jaina from Thrall's eyes. Jaina was the third person for whom Thrall had ever truly grieved like this, for whom Thrall's tears had fallen freely and with only pure grief and loss. This time, it was different from when Taretha perished; with Taretha's death, much of the sadness went into Thrall's already existent hatred of Aedelas Blackmoore, grief turned into rage for her murderer and the one who had abused the both of them throughout the years.

With Jaina's death, there was only helpless, endless grief for Thrall, and the knowledge that there was none but himself to blame for her demise regardless of the method. It didn't matter who killed Jaina Proudmoore; Thrall was responsible one way or another.

Seeing Jaina, Thrall didn't want to have to cry. He wanted Jaina to return, to come back to him.

But all Thrall could do now was to honor her.

Or was it even enough?

The Warchief fell to his knees, oblivious to all else, eyes still stubbornly locked onto Jaina and unwilling to let go of her. His tears fell onto the glass separating Jaina and Thrall, creating small puddles of sadness where they landed; Thrall's large, calloused fingers reached out gently to touch the glass around Jaina's head, wanting to feel her but making do with what he could. A part of him wanted to remain like this, to stay here with Jaina forever, but reality knew better. And reality, at that moment, made things even more melancholic.

_How did Jaina meet her end_? Thrall wondered to himself, his thoughts drifting. _Did Jaina know it was coming, did she know what to expect? Has she found peace now_?

His eyes welled shut to block the tears.

_Does she blame me_?

Thrall tried to say something to commemorate Jaina, but the words would not come, his mind blank with loss and preventing anything from being said. No amount of words could express his grief; no words of comfort could reverse any of this. While Thrall knew it proper to say something, he simply didn't know what to say that would be of worth...

Struggling between words and silence, Thrall could only kneel beside his true friend in awkward silence and tears, memories of Jaina returning to him too fast, too immensely, whether Thrall liked it or not. He didn't know what else he could do until, all of a sudden, someone would give him a hint, someone interrupted his thoughts and caught Thrall's attention.

"Warchief?"

The new voice that came from behind startled Thrall and, despite his grief, instinct once again kicked in; rising to his feet quickly, Thrall raised the Doomhammer in his hands hurriedly - fortunately managing to miss the sarcophagus holding Admiral Proudmoore's body - and turned to face the new intruder, chest breathing heavily and sharply to try to recompose himself back to fighting condition. With a wipe from his left forearm Thrall tried to dry his tears from the intruder, to no avail; he sneered, his voice slightly wavering.

It turned out Thrall didn't need to have bothered.

The speaker, standing at the foot of the stairs Thrall had proceeded down, was a Human girl - not woman, girl, as she seemed not much older than fifteen, even - and from her short, small and lithe stature the girl seemed very much out of place amongst the warriors that faced Thrall earlier. Her hair was red, braided so that it flowed down her back in one large strand, as were her big, round eyes - slightly reminiscent of Leonid's - and lips, and her skin was of a perfect peach color reminiscent of Jaina's when she was still alive. Wearing a short-sleeved white vest and skirt and brown leather boots, the girl was pretty enough by Human standards - Thrall would know - but was still very much dwarfed by Jaina's own exquisite beauty. Still, for her to be down here, Thrall deduced despite his thoughts that while she probably wasn't very high-ranked in Theramore, she was still someone of importance.

"And you are?" Thrall asked bluntly, drying his tears once again. He didn't want anyone else to see his tears, the tears that were now shed for Jaina alone.

The girl didn't seem bothered at all. "Name's Alice - Alice Albionus."

Thrall blinked at her blankly. "You're Leonid Korlend's..."

"He's my grandfather." Alice breathed in deeply, and nodded before Thrall had to ask his next question. "So yes, I knew Lady Jaina before the Admiral started this whole mess, and no, I'm not here to kill you, so you can put that hammer of yours down. Careful with it, though." Once Thrall had lowered his Doomhammer to the ground gently, Alice sighed relief. "It's nice to finally meet you, Warchief Thrall."

To that Thrall had no reply. He turned back wordlessly towards Jaina.

"You can cry if you want to, Warchief, it's a funeral, it's alright to cry." Alice shrugged; turning again towards Alice, Thrall could see that although they had been dried now, the redness around them implied that Alice herself had indeed done her own share of the mourning, as well. That made Thrall slightly more accepting of Alice to know that she, too, probably believed in what Jaina had, that peace between Durotar and Theramore was possible and that Alice, too, trusted Thrall, but her next words confused him: "Lady Jaina would've loved that. She would've felt honored by it."

_She...she would_? What did Alice mean by that, Thrall wondered. _But why would Jaina? I was the one_...

That was interrupted when Alice held out what seemed to be an envelope, plain and sealed simply, towards Thrall while walking forward until she, too, was right next to Jaina's body. At a confused loss, Thrall gently reached out and took the envelope in his large hands, completely overwhelming Alice's own. Alice pulled back, stepping backwards once, and gestured for Thrall to read it.

"And this is...?"

"Lady Jaina wrote this for you some time before your people attacked the Admiral," Alice explained. Thrall bit his lip tightly; if Alice knew about Jaina helping them before the attack, she chose not to say anything about it. He felt slightly grateful to Alice for it. "She wanted my grandfather to give this to you if anything happened to her. I guess..." Alice turned away and shuffled uncomfortably. "I guess Lady Jaina always felt she would...you know...sooner or later."

Thrall knew, and sheer curiousity and anxiety overtook him as he quickly fumbled open the envelope, broke the seal with his nail, and pulled open the folded letter placed inside of it. He was suddenly anxious to see what Jaina had to say to him, what she had felt; Alice only waited, turning around slowly without purpose, while Thrall unfolded the letter and began reading Jaina's words that were reserved only for him:

* * *

_Thrall,_

_I have always been told as a little child that bad things happen even to good people, that even the most heroic and holy of people suffer every now and then. Even now, I do not understand how this has come to pass; I could not understand why Father could not see the change in your people from old times, why he refused to understand the possibility of peace between your people and mine. But if there is one thing I know, it is that sometimes bad things have to happen for more good things to come about, no matter how sad they may be._

_Thrall, when I made the decision to help you stop Father, I felt saddened by it, that I had to come to that and, mostly, that Father would not accept anything else but that. He is, after all, my Father, and even now it still hurt; even now, I wish things could've turned out differently, that we could've worked a compromise out and prevented all this from happening. Most importantly, however, I wished that I could've done more to stop all this, that I could've done more than I can right now to maintain the truce we had agreed upon._

_But when I thought about it more, of the stress and pain that you must likewise be feeling over what you have to do, I knew at once that while it hurts...it was still what was right. It was what had to be done. I had never been born to lead, Thrall; my only aspirations in the past had been to become a sorceress, a scholar in magic, and yet Fate had led me to Kalimdor, to building Theramore, and to you. At first I wasn't confident that I could even do what was demanded of me, but after Hyjal, after all that came to pass, I slowly realized that this actually **was** the best thing that could happen to me and the people I led here, that if I hadn't listened to Medivh then, I wouldn't have been part of such a great thing. It wasn't what I wanted at first, but it was for the best._

_My truce with you was different, though; it was for the best **and** what I wanted to see, because I know **you**. I can feel it whenever I remember your eyes, the gentleness I see in you outside of battle, the grief you felt for Grom when he sacrificed himself honorably. I know you're different than the Orcs I've been told about as a child, than the Orcs my Father fought against and still think you are._

_I know you're special._

_And I believe that, no matter what may happen, you'll do what you feel is best for you and your people. You'll do what you feel is right. Whatever you choose to do, I believe in that; I made my decision believing in you. And remembering that, I realized that in the end, no matter how heavy the decision was for me to turn against Father, I never regretted what I did. And I never regretted siding with you, Thrall, and finding peace - however brief it was - between our two nations._

_It was my decision to help you, nevertheless, and I am prepared and accepting of whatever may happen to me because of it. There is no need for you to seek my forgiveness, regardless of what had transpired; I never blamed you for anything, and there is nothing for me to forgive. I believe in you more than enough to know that whatever you do, you carry forth with the noble heart I admire in you._

_I feel so honored to have a friend such as you, Thrall._

_I do not wish to say goodbye to you so soon, but should anything happen to me - which most likely had transpired if you are reading this, because should I have had any say in it this letter shall be burnt - I only ask of one thing from you: Never lose sight of who you are, and never spurn the person you've become. You are destined for great things, and your destiny can only shine brighter, Thrall; It is because of you and your heart that this destiny is a certainty, and nothing but yourself can change that._

_Perhaps I am not destined to be in your future, but I can continue to believe in it._

_With all the pride, gratefulness and love in my heart,_

_Jaina_

* * *

"You were more than a friend to her, Warchief, and she believed in you with all her heart," Alice sighed softly, shaking her head and gazing upon Thrall with sympathy for his loss. "I remember grandfather asking the Lady, the night before your forces attacked, if she was afraid she'll die when you finally did attack or if someone found out that she was helping you," Alice lowered her head wistfully at that. Clenching the letter tightly between his hands, Thrall looked up and blinked at the girl. "And Lady Jaina told him that...that she _was_ a little afraid, but that she'll accept it if it's for the best. She didn't regret a thing, Warchief, even if she was going to die; I guess the Lady wouldn't have minded if she had to die by your hand, too..."

With the memory obviously too much to bear for the girl, Alice ran out of the hall, pranced up the stairs in front of Thrall's eyes, and eventually the Warchief was left alone with Jaina and Admiral Proudmoore once again. Still holding the letter, Thrall's eyes turned to Jaina once more; grief returned, as did fresh tears, but now there was a new feeling of gratitude and pride for her, having read her words and found them comforting, finding that she had shared his feelings and that she had never blamed Thrall for her fate, believed in him. And hearing that made it much, much easier for Thrall to let go of her, to finally find the closure he came to Theramore to seek.

That, Thrall knew very well, made everything alright between him and Jaina.

With his large fingers gently stroking the glass over Jaina's body with the gentleness she had liked in him, Thrall gave one more good look at Jaina and managed, at least to him, a small, almost _fond_ smile on his lips. She believed, and it was time he continued to do so, as well.

"Farewell, Jaina," Thrall whispered, and the 'smile' never faded despite the tears. "I feel honored to have you as my friend, too."

* * *

By the time Thrall emerged from the crypt and finally left Jaina Proudmoore behind him, the sun had almost completely set behind the Kalimdor horizon.

As the large-built Warchief, Doomhammer in hand, took his first step back onto the sands of Theramore's northern shore once more, the Human warriors that had been in charge of the funeral once again cleared a path around him, but Thrall was no longer bothered by their caution and hostility; he had come to do what he must, and had honored his word _and_ his friend. He had not lost who he was, although in his blind grief Thrall had come so close to doing so. It was now Thrall's time to depart. With a sense of closure, Thrall began walking away from the crypt doors - which quickly sealed behind him - and none of the warriors dared stand in his way this time.

Thrall came across Leonid Korlend first, eyes solemnly on Thrall, arms holding a distraught and sobbing Alice to him. There were no other words Leonid needed to say; he understood, and knew from the faded grief in Thrall that Jaina had likewise accepted him as well. The Archmage only nodded with as much courtesy as he had in his frail body. "Safe travels, Warchief."

"_Lok Tar Ogar_, Sir Leonid. Give my thanks to Alice as well."

"She understands, Warchief," Leonid smiled faintly and nodded again, turning to Alice. "Don't worry about that."

Next was Albin Bridget, and the Paladin obviously did not want to see Thrall; he had to grudgingly acknowledge that Thrall, despite being an Orc, _did_ keep his honor and his word - there was no reason Alice would lie to them - and it was as if Albin didn't dare look at Thrall lest he himself become tempted to do anything rash in turn. There was plenty of time for that afterwards, Albin frowned derisively. As Thrall passed by, Albin's back was to the Warchief and he didn't dare turn to see him; all Albin did was nod in acknowledgement.

Finally, standing firmly in a smaller ring of Humans, Tashiroth bowed to Thrall as the Warchief approached. The Warchief nodded, and gave one last look around him. It was unlikely he'll ever be back in Theramore Isle after this, but it was enough. He had given his respects to Jaina as Thrall felt he wanted and had to. The Blademaster straightened and glared once more at Albin.

"Let us depart, Tashiroth."

"Yes, Warchief."

That was all. With that, once again side-by-side, Thrall and Tashiroth weaved their way through the crowd of Humans as they cleared around them again, and eventually, in silence, reached Dustwallow Marsh once more. At the outskirts, Thrall turned towards the Human settlement again; he sighed as the Humans continued to finish the funeral ceremony, with only the back row of Humans keeping a cautious and feared eye on them. The sun had finished setting, blanketing Theramore Isle over a blue night sky, and the lights of torches slowly, but surely, became visible throughout the island.

Thrall sighed once more. It was finished, but would the next time Thrall catches sight of Theramore Isle be as an enemy or a prisoner of war? With Jaina gone, would Kalimdor once again ever see the peace that she and Thrall had believed in so fervantly before Admiral Proudmoore arrived? It was definitely going to be difficult at best, of course, especially with people by the likes of Albin Bridget behind the government. But Jaina had believed, even to her end. Thrall was willing to try once more, for Jaina, because she would always believe in him. And he will always treasure that.

Thrall and Jaina would always be true friends who, despite all barriers, found that faith in each other to move onwards, hand-in-hand, and that never will change for either of them.

Never.


End file.
